


Were Everyone Knows You're Insane

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Conspiracy Theories, Crack, Dysfunctional Family, Family Issues, Gen, Nick Rye - Last Sane Man in Hope County, Supernatural Elements, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, The Author Regrets Nothing, seriously, this is just pure crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 01:06:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15425634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: Nick Rye is starting to wonder if he’s gotten exposed to too much Bliss and no one’s bothered to tell him.The only other explanation he can think of is that the Deputy just isn’t human, and somehowno one else notices.And that would beinsane.Right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _I have no explaination, or remorse. Enjoy._
> 
> _Chapter Warnings for adult-type language and general insanity._

Nick Rye is starting to wonder if he’s gotten into too much Bliss and has gone crazy and no one’s bothered to tell him.

It’s the only logical reason he can think of for why he’s been noticing… _things_ about their dear Junior Deputy that no one else seems to.

The others, of course, think he’s losing it.

“You’re losing it, Rye.”

Case in point.

That or they _have_ noticed and are just pretending not to have to screw with his mind. Which is entirely possible.

Either way though he’s got to _try_ , or he’s _definitely_ going to go crazy.

“Seriously?” He casts his eyes around the group, looking for any _glimmer_ of support or consideration and seeing only incredulous pity. “Not _one_ of you has noticed _anything_ weird about her?”

“Nick…” Sharky sounds _far_ calmer and more reasonable than he has any right to be, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this… but we’re _all_ weird.”

Hurk chimes in, adding insult to insult because Nick _knows_ the bastard believes in sasquatch, so his sudden skepticism is just _unfair_. “Yeah man, and not just us-we,” the definitive deep-North redneck gestures at the ramshackle group of misfits and maladjusts sprawled around the main room of the abandoned pizzeria, who dutifully – and dickishly – wave in response, like they're at a damn AA meeting. “But, like, all-Hope-County-we.” He looks around for affirmation, and _of course_ the jerks give it to _Hurk_. “Yeah. People here are weird. It’s like, _our_ normal.”

“That’s _not_ what I’m –” Nick throws his head back, rubbing his face with both hands as he fights to breathe normally. Someone mutters something about the pressure getting to him, and he flips them off without bothering to glare. “Ok. _Yes._ ” He sighs heavily and forces his eyes back open, undaunted by the expressions of bored annoyance and idle amusement around him, “Hope County is a weird place full of weird people. No one ever has or will dispute that. But!" He raises a finger pointedly, glaring down Sharky and Hurk until the cousins’ mouths shut, “I’m not talkin’… thinks-the-government-controls-our-minds-through-breakfast-cereal weird, or believes-in-aliens weird, or wears-socks-with-sandals weird, or has-a-woodpecker-for-a-wife weird, or collects-toe-nail-clippings weird. I’m not even talkin’ sets-random-shit-on-fire weird –”

“Hey!”

“– or abducts-and-tortures-people-because-“God”-said-to weird.” Nick pauses for a moment, trying to force his point home through dramatic timing and sheer force of will. “I’m talkin’ _Weird_ weird.”

The others stare blankly at him.

Jess scoffs. “ _You’re_ Weird weird.”

“ _Oh come on!_ ” Nick is, in fact, aware of how crazy he’s currently looking and sounding and acting. But _how_? _**How**_ can they _possible_ not notice? “How can you possible not notice any of this?!” He’s got his hands out, practically _begging_ someone – _anyone_ , seriously, he’ll accept _Hurk’s_ support at this point – to see reason. “ _Human beings_ _**do not act**_ like she does.”

“Well that’s a little harsh.”

“Really, Nick,” Adelaide wrinkles her nose at him in disapproval, “the girl has her little quirks, sure, but _everyone’s_ entitled to get their kicks in their own way.” Then, before anyone can stop her, Adelaide grins hungrily and waggles her eyebrows, “Providing everyone’s consenting and all, of course.”

Nick’s turning very red, and is saved any further Adelaide-ness when Jess snorts in disgust. “Ok, _gross_. And definitely _not_ what we’re talkin’ about.” And then, because apparently it's go-to-hell-Nick Day, “But yeah, ho-bag’s right. Callin’ Robin inhuman’s kind of a dick move.”

Are they _serious_?!

“What else do you call it?” He’s not crazy. He’s _not_. “Did no one else notice what she did to that drug moose?!”

Grace stares at him, blankly, “She… killed it?”

“She _drowned_ it!” He’s going to have nightmares about that whole thing for the rest of his life. “She drowned a moose! That was high on super drugs!” Some of the nightmares will be hitting him while he’s awake, too. “Thing was a damn behemoth and she lured it into the water and pulled it under and drowned it _with her bare hands!_ ”

Jess shrugs, unconcerned, “Girl likes drownin’ things.”

Sharky sighs, just a touch perturbed and sadly resigned, “Fire’s not for everyone, I guess.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing!” He chooses to ignore Sharky, as usual. “She’s _really_ good at drownin’ people. Like… _uncannily_ good at drownin’ people.”

Grace is still staring at him, “Practice makes perfect, Nick.”

Seriously?

“And none of you find it weird that she drowns so many people? That she goes _out of her way_ to drown people?”

“Lots of Peggies near water,” Grace explains in the same moment that Sharky grins, “Poetic Justice,” and Jess drawls, "It’s efficient.”

Seriously.

“Seriously?” He takes a second, then decides to tackle Jess’ argument. “The woman carries, like… an entire _armory_ on her at all times, and _drownin’_ is more efficient than just shootin’ or clubbin’ or knifin’ someone?”

The huntress is unmoved. “Saves ammo, is quiet.”

“Drownin’ isn’t quiet!”

“It is the way _she_ does it.”

“Besides,” Adelaide jumps back in as Nick stands sputtering, “you have to admit it’s _much_ tidier.”

Hurk nods sagely, “Don’t get any blood or brains on yourself.”

“Ok, ok _fine_.” These _people_. Nick breathes through his teeth for a second. “Table the drownin’ for now. How ‘bout her _other_ water-based ‘quirks?’”

“So she’s a good swimmer, so what?”

“She could probably crush every swim record in Guinness! Not to _mention_ how long she can stay underwater!”

“Nick,” Adelaide actually sounds a little sad for him, “lots of people can hold their breath.”

“For _ten minutes?_ ”

“Nick.” Grace has _mastered_ the blank look. “It’s not physically possible for a human to hold their breath for ten minutes.”

_“Exactly!”_

“Oh come on man,” Sharky laughs at him – stupid pyro bastard. “Just because no one _saw_ her come up for air doesn’t mean that she _didn’t._ ”

“And no one saw for a full ten – ok, _great_!” Unbelievable! Nick takes another few calming breaths that do nothing to calm him. “How about her thing for raw fish?”

Adelaide _sighs_ at him, “It’s called ‘sushi' hun.”

Oh for – “When it’s still fully intact and _fightin’ for its life?!”_

“Fresher the better. Besides,” Jess grins at him, all gleaming teeth, “consume a life and you consume its power.”

…

Jess’ smile falters a little under everyone’s stares. “What?”

Sharky’s eyes turn slowly back to Nick, very wide. “And… _Robin’s_ the one you have concerns about?”

“Fuck you, Boshaw.”

“Ok, great, fine. She’s tryin’ to consume _fish souls_ , that makes sense.” These are the people he’s trusting with his and his family’s lives. “But how do you explain the way she can growl down wild animals?”

“Oh _please_ ,” Jess sniffs, looking offended, “ _I_ do that all the time – shut it, Boshaw!”

He ignores the sidetracking drama and charges forward, it’s the only chance he’s got. “ _No_ , Jess, you growl _at_ wild animals. You do not make some kind of prehistoric sound that makes wolves and bears and _wolverines_ wet themselves and go runnin’ home to mama.”

“Hey man, animals are _smart_ , ok? They know an apex predator when they see one. ‘Sides,” Hurk nods knowingly at him, “you know she’s into all that homeopathic shit. Got some kind of crazy hunter juice or something from Jess’ wildman friend.”

They _can’t_ be serious. “The thing where she marks up trees and rocks and buildin's and stuff?”

“Navigation and intimidation.”

They _have_ to be screwing with him. “The fact that she’s just as obsessed with balls and squeaky toys as Boomer is?”

“I dunno man, those things _are_ really fun.”

No one can _really_ be this oblivious. “The way she’ll go rolling around in the dirt or the grass, then start _obsessively_ groomin’ and messin’ with her hair?”

“Oh what? Girl’s a badass so she can’t care about how she looks?”

Right? “What about the other day when she _recoiled_ and _**hissed**_ at the sight of silver?”

“You mean the silver _Peggie cross_ that was being shoved into her face by a cultist screaming that she was the Whore of Babylon? How _else_ should someone react to that?”

Holy shit they _were_ serious. “The fact that she disappears every time there’s a _**full moon?!**_ ”

“Proper conditions for solo scouting missions.”

_**“Oh come on!”** _

“No, she’s right.” Jess remains largely unphased by his steadily mounting breakdown. “You’ve got the cover of night going, and the moon’d give away any _group_ but provides a _single_ person with enough light to see well enough –”

“Nick…” Grace waves Jess off, then turns to him and oh _shit_ the blank face is actually changing into one that has _emotions_. “I’ll admit this was funny at first,” she continues speaking over his outrage squawk, “but you’re starting to take a _dark_ turn with all this. What I’m trying to say here,” she walks over to him and places a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, expression creepily soft, “Is that we’re _here_ for you, Nick. No matter what.”

“ _They’re_ here for you. _I’m_ here for the show.”

“Quiet Jess.”

Nick’s jaw _drops._

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

_Sharky_ jumps in, disturbingly supportive, “We’re _worried_ about you, man.”

“Why are we worried about Nick?”

Everyone jumps, heads whipping around towards the young redheaded woman who’s now standing, still damp and holding a large wicker fishing-hamper, in the doorway.

Nick swallows hard and yelps out “We’re not!” at the _exact_ moment Hurk says “Nick thinks you’re a werewolf!”

Jess scoffs out a derisive laugh, waggling her fingers mockingly in the air. “Not wolf, dumbass. A were _otter_ , remember? ‘Cause _that’s_ a thing.”

The others start laughing, and Nick is probably – yet _again_ – the only one who notices something _odd_ about Robin.

Namely, the way she’s gone wide eyed and pale and deathly still.

Then, with _jarring_ abruptness, Robin huffs out a sort of high, wild, _extremely_ nervous laughter. “Wh- what?” She draws out the word, high pitched and forcibly cheerful and _utterly_ unlike any sound she has _ever_ made. “What would – why would you – wha- what? C’mon Nick, you… you think I’m some kind of, what, Dobhar-chú or somethin’? Wh-what’s that about?”

Wait, what?

Nick stares at her, feeling very, _very_ nervous all of a sudden. “I… I never said anything about a –”

“I mean…” The Deputy cuts him off, not even seeming to hear him over her own mounting hysteria. “H-how would an Irish therianthrope even end up in rural Montana anyway, it’s ancestors would have to hop a boat to escape persecution and spend generations hiding amongst humans and occasionally interminglin’ with other vídrathrope bloodlines in order to avoid inbreeding all while dodging local hostiles and hunters and other shit and that would just be – tha- that would be crazy, that’s _crazy_! You’re crazy Nick.” The last bit is completely, eerily flat. It matches the look in her eyes perfectly and Nick isn’t entirely sure but he may have peed himself a little.

The room falls perfectly silent as Nick and Robin stare wide eyed at each other – his face a mask of muted terror, hers of deathly intensity.

Then Sharky throws back his head and starts _laughing_. “That’s – _ah_! His face, look at his face!”

Robin immediately jumps in on the laughter, still uncharacteristically high and mechanical, grin painfully forced and not coming anywhere close to her eyes. “Ye-ah, I… that was good, right? I… sure got him there! Yeah, ha ha, crazy old Nick, am I right?”

The others are all laughing now, picking up the cry of “Crazy Old Nick” and shoving and punching at his shoulders jovially, the weird tension completely forgotten.

And, yet again, only Nick seems to notice the way Robin’s staring at him – eyes all wide and twitchy and intense above her frozen smile.

Laughing a little, high and hysterical and not at all happily, Nick forces a grin back at the Deputy. “Y-yeah. Yeah Robin, you… you sure got me. I guess…” Another hysterical laugh bubbles up involuntarily, “Guess I’ve been getting’ too much sun or Bliss or whatever lately, huh? Boy do I feel really… dumb, right now.” Robin’s still staring at him. “Because of that completely insane idea I had that is absolutely in no way possible.”

The others are still laughing, still talking about Crazy Old Nick and his crazy conspiracy theories, and still not noticing the way Robin’s staring him down.

It’s official – Nick Rye is the only sane person left in Hope County, and he’s going to fucking _die_.

Someone presses a beer into his hand, and Nick’s chugging it back in one go, then grabbing the other beer that _probably_ wasn’t intended for him and starting in on that.

And suddenly Robin’s standing right in front of him.

And this time he definitely _does_ pee a little.

Except… then he notices that Robin’s still looking really nervous, but that there’s something more underneath that. And Crazy Old Nick he may be – now, at least – but he’s pretty sure the Deputy looks… scared.

The younger woman raises her own beer towards him, smile pained and eyes huge under brows that are all drawn up and worried, and her voice is weirdly quiet when she murmurs, “Cheers? Nick?”

He stares at her for a second, a whole other playlist of memories suddenly flickering through his brain. Then, smiling for real – if still a little awkward – he clinks his bottle against hers. “Cheers Rob.”

And then _she’s_ smiling for real – if still a little awkward – and they drink their beers, chuckling when the others – apparently finished with go-to-hell-Nick day – turn on Sharky about something – presumably fire or disco related – that he’s done recently. So maybe he _isn’t_ going to get eaten by a giant terrifying wereotter, after all. 

All the same though – Nick’s not going _near_ any bodies of water anytime soon.

Just in case.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And now... the madness concludes._
> 
> _Chapter warnings for adult-type language and violence (which I don't think it's enough to alter the story warnings... but I figured I'd bring it up just in case)._

In retrospect, Nick should have known better than to go off by himself, ‘cause they’d figured there was Peggie activity in the area and all and some things were just common sense.

But damn it, sometimes a man just wants a little privacy when he goes to take a piss.

And _that’s_ another thing he’s going to have to give up thanks to the fucking cult. Assuming he gets out of his current situation unbrainwashed and – y’know – _alive._

Thus far though, chances of that aren’t looking good.

'Cause the Peggies clocked him pretty good over the head before he even knew they were there, he’s not entirely sure where he currently is except for “in-the-water,” and they’re “baptizing” him something fierce.

Also, one of them is this fucking massive WWE looking guy, who Nick is pretty sure he cannot take in a fight.

Seriously. The guy looks kind of like John Cena.

Actually… the guy looks _a lot_ like John Cena.

…

Nick _really_ hopes the cult didn’t _actually_ get their hands on John Cena.

Though that would explain why he hadn’t seen the guy coming…

That line of thought gets cut off as his head is shoved violently back below the surface of the water for the something-eth time.

Nick kind of suspects that whoever set up the rules for Eden’s Gate baptisms – probably John – has never actually _seen_ a baptism, just had one described to them by someone who _really_ hates religion. 

Nick also kind of suspects that he’s fucked, because Cultist John Cena’s grip is _not_ budging.

He’s starting to pass out when they finally pull him back up, coughing and sputtering painfully. He's still doing that, and is partially blind from the water dripping down his face – and, y’know, from the intense oxygen deprivation – when someone steps into his personal space and roughly grabs his face.

Someone – he suspects Joseph this time, but it’s just as likely to be all of the Seed bastards together – has given these people some _very_ strange ideas about bodily autonomy, and the respecting thereof.

Case in point, the apparent boss of the group that’s got him – some unimpressive weasely looking guy – is running his hands all over Nick’s face like a _massive_ creeper, getting all up on him and grinning at him with his nasty ass teeth. It’s starting to give Nick some _weird_ vibes.

“Nick Rye,” the guy finally croaks out after a really awkward silence, “you’ve been causing quite a few problems for the family.”

Ok, and now the guy’s face is getting _really_ close to Nick’s. Like… _uncomfortably_ close.

“What’s the matter, heretic? Nothing to say? You sinners usually can’t keep your blasphemous mouths shut.”

Nick _wishes_ he had something good to say. The others are really, _really_ good at the whole ‘defiant in the face of danger’ thing. Any one of them would probably be _set_ – would have something witty and fearless all ready to go, perfectly tailored to rile the Peggies enough to give them a shot at escape. Robin, in particular, excels at that kind of thing; coming off like a particularly offensive cross between James Bond and John McClane and Dirty Harry. Nick can’t do that. Nick’s banter abilities usually begin and end with telling people to fuck off, never mind reaching the point of pissing off or scaring anyone. Still, he’s been challenged, so he’s got to at least try. It's the Hope County way.

_These might be your last words, Nick. Make ‘em good._

“If you tell me to squeal like a pig, I _swear_ I am bittin’ my own tongue off.”

_Oh. Brilliant, Nick. Because nothing’s more intimidating than threatening to kill **yourself**.”_

Except…

Except Weasel Face actually looks kind of _pissed_

And one of his lackeys might actually be snickering at his boss.

Well what do you know; Nick’s finally gotten off a decent one-liner!

Figures it’ll probably be his last one and he’s got no witnesses to attest to it.

Weasel Face’s hand seems to be trying to crush Nick’s jaw, and his weasel face is turning so red it kind of looks like he’s going to have an aneurism or something as he turns to the others and squeaks out, _“Take him to John.”_

Oh.

Oh that’s not good.

Not even a little bit.

Cultist John Cena starts pulling him towards the shore, and Nick knows he’s got a snowball’s chance at getting anywhere but he tries struggling anyway, because like hell is he going near John “I-don’t-know-how-to-handle-my-trauma-or-sexual-urges-like-a-normal-human-being” Seed without a fight. _Screw_ dignity, Nick Rye will meet his end kicking and screaming. Literally. And so Nick starts flailing ineffectually in the grasp of someone who could probably fold him in _half_ , which does exactly nothing to get him free. 

It does, however, let him catch a peripheral glimpse when one of the cultists suddenly gets _**yanked**_ underwater.

Nick freezes abruptly, double-taking in the direction where he’s reasonably certain the guy’d just been, wondering what exactly the hell he’d just seen and whether the Bliss these morons like so much had anything to do with it.

Nick’s sudden change in behavior doesn’t go unnoticed by Cultist John Cena, who stops moving, confused.

He’s not the only one. Another cultist is looking around, bewildered. “Where’s Leroy?”

Then everyone’s looking around, the Peggies pulling their guns up and scanning the area nervously. Weasel Face has gone a little pale, backing slowly towards shore and reaching for his radio.

At which point he bumps into something, swears once, and then starts _screaming_.

Everyone turns his way, which means everyone sees the thing he’d bumped into.

Nick hadn’t really paid attention to Leroy during the whole abduction-and-torture thing – probably wouldn’t have been able to tell him apart from most of the group, to be honest – but he’s _fairly_ certain that the guy had been in possession of a face and a throat.

Which is a little upsetting to think about, ‘cause all he’s got in those areas now is a lot of raw, chewed on looking _meat_.

The cultists – rather understandably – lose their collective shit.

Especially when Weasel Face gets yanked below the water himself.

_**“It’s the Beast!”** _

The world around Nick erupts into madness, half the Peggies firing wildly into the water around them and half of them flailing and stumbling towards the shore and all of them _screaming_.

It would all be weirdly hilarious and satisfying if Nick wasn’t pretty damn sure _he_ was about to die too.

Cultist John Cena is moving towards the shore again as two more of his pals vanish – screaming and sobbing – into the water, and Nick’s not fighting him anymore. It ends up giving them the best possible view when a dark, fucking _massive_ shape comes arcing up out of the water, catches the head of one of the fleeing Peggies in its massive jaws, and vanishes back under the water, pulling the guy – a six foot bruiser – with it like a ragdoll. Only for his body to bob right back up. Without a _head_.

“Circle up!” One of the surviving cultists bellows, pulling up close to Nick and Cultist John Cena, and all the others – except one guy who’s going _completely_ to pieces – jump to obey, forming a rough circle of four outward facing guns and blind terror. Plus Nick, who’s been shoved in front of his captor as a human shield, and who has plenty of terror and no gun.

The guy having a breakdown suddenly screams out in agony, and the two Peggies facing him open fire, only succeeding in filling their own guy with bullets.

Things go deathly still after that, second after terrifying second ticking by.

Then, like it’s got a personal vendetta against them all and has been waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, the big, beautiful, full moon comes out from behind the clouds and lights the whole area up like the noonday sun.

The water around them is _red_ , with bits of cultist bobbing around the surface like the world’s most horrifying ice cubes.

Weasel Face goes floating past them, only to roll over when he bumps someone and half of him is just _gone_.

By this point, Nick thinks a little hysterically, there’s probably more blood, tears, and piss in the water than actual water.

Seconds tick by, nothing moving and no one disappearing, and the silence around them is almost physically painful.

One of the surviving Peggies whimpers, twitches. “Is… is it –”

And apparently whatever nightmare’s hunting them has an _amazing_ sense of dramatic timing, because it chooses that exact moment to surface.

There’s a split-second where they all just _stare_ at it – backlit by the moon so all they see is the pitch black silhouette of something long and lithe, hunched and looming over the whimpering guy and _still_ as tall as a big grizzly on its hind legs, massive eyes staring down at them and glowing with green fire. And teeth. Really big, really _sharp_ teeth glistening in a snarling muzzle.

Then the _thing_ raises up a _massive_ webbed paw full of terrifying looking claws and brings it down on Whimpers, sheering off his face and arm and snapping his neck a full hundred-eighty degrees in one swipe, before lunging for the next guy’s throat while knocking New Leader and Cultist John Cena and Nick over with a sweep of a battering-ram tail and a roar from the pits of hell.

Nick comes up flailing and sputtering and _free_ , and starts stumbling for the shore as quick as he can manage, the horrifying screams of New Leader following him.

He’s just reached the shallows when something slams into him from behind, a massive hand closing on the back of his jacket and hauling him up short, swinging him back around so he’s between Cultist John Cena and the bloody, frothing water.

Nick swears, flails, tries to struggle free, then freezes – instantly and involuntarily – when a pair of glowing, hellfire green eyes focus on him. The creature’s crouched in the water, the limp, _shredded_ remains of New Leader hanging from its maw like a mangled chew toy as it watches them – Cultist John Cena using Nick as a shield again and pointing a gun from over his shoulder – slowly back towards dry land.

The world seems to stop for a second.

Then it starts up again like someone’s hit fast-forward on the remote control to reality.

The thing drops what’s left of New Leader and lunges towards them, and the gun over Nick’s shoulder goes off – muzzle flash and gunshots like a flashbang right next to his head. From that point everything gets all weird, the world going from fast-forward to pre-edited stop motion, still frames flashing jarringly before his eyes.

He watches the thing get closer, mouth gaping and full of lethal fangs, eyes blazing life chemical fires. He watches a wave of bullets slam into it, sending out sprays and spurts of blood and fur. He watches it _keep coming_ , roaring in mindless fury, loud enough to crest over the gunfire. He watches it get closer and closer and closer to him, and then coil itself up, leap forward, and sail _over_ them.

And then Nick’s on his side in the shallows, head spinning and vision flashing black and white while someone _screams_ in the distance.

He’s just starting to push himself up, still dizzy as all get out and trying not to puke, when the screaming stops and something shuffles noisily just off to the side of him. Nick freezes, hands planted on the ground of the muddy shallows. Then he exhales slowly, shakily, closes his eyes, and waits.

A few seconds tick by and nothing kills him. Which is not something he’s expecting.

The shuffling noise happens again, a little nearer to him, and Nick decides _fuckit_ and looks up.

And then he just kind of stares. Because – and yeah, ok, it _could_ be the Bliss, but he really wasn’t exposed to any significant quantity of the stuff at all – he’s face to face with what looks a hell of a lot like a Cheeseburger-sized otter.

Nick and the giant ass otter stare at each other, about an arm's-length apart and a few dozen pieces of Cultist John Cena littering the ground between them.

Then the thing raises a webbed paw and takes a step his direction and Nick _shrieks_ out something – he’s not entirely sure what – and starts scrambling backwards, not caring that he’s taking himself further into the Beast’s – capital B, he gets that now – home turf and the thing’s probably going to go crazy again now that he’s reacting like prey and he’s going to _fucking **die**_ and – 

And the thing recoils from _him_. Flinches back like a beaten dog, ducks its head, _whines_ like someone’s killing it, and suddenly a series of facts click into place in Nick’s head.

Like the fact that there’s a full moon overhead. Like the fact that about half of the Peggies who’d abducted him were drowned. Like the fact that the impossible otter monster ignored him on multiple occasions to kill Peggies. Like the fact that it seemed to go from murderous to fucking psychotic every time one of the Peggies kind of threatened him.

Like the fact that the full moon is shining down on the giant and suddenly he realizes that it’s got red fur.

Like the fact that, while he’s no Dr. Perkins or otterologist or whatever, he’s _pretty_ sure that no otter has ever had green eyes… but he knows a certain Deputy Ladybird who _does_. 

Fighting every lizard-brain instinct that’s screaming at him, Nick slowly rises up to his knees. Then, after taking a second to breathe, he reaches his hand out slowly and – like he would with Boomer or Peaches or Cheeseburger after a bad fight – tentatively strokes his hand along the shying creature’s scruff, continuing the motion when it freezes, shudders, then melts into the touch.

Slowly, the giant creature looks up at him with big green eyes, and Nick huffs a quiet laugh and smiles at her. 

“Thanks, Robin.”

She rears back in shock, staring at him.

Then suddenly she does lunge for him, and Nick gets knocked onto his ass in the river, a wriggling, bouncing mass of thick velvety fur nuzzling and rubbing and pawing at him in sheer _joy_ , making a weird series of chuffing and squeaking and chirping noises as her massive tail – and seriously, the thing’s got to be four feet long – wags hard enough to send water spraying everywhere.

Nick should probably care that he’s getting soaked in bloody corpse-water, or at least that he’s getting thoroughly snuggled by a freakishly massive death machine that probably shouldn’t actually exist and probably rewrites a shitton of science books. But, honestly, he really doesn’t feel like doing anything but laughing and snuggling the giant affront to modern science right back. “Agh! Robin, Robby, stop! Your giant ass is crushin’ me!” He keeps laughing and makes no move to actually shove her off, even when she starts growling playfully and purposefully pinning him under her bulk. “You’re worse than Cheeseburger!”

They stay there, laughing and chirping and wrestling in the shallows, for a good long while. Then, when Nick’s laughter is starting to sound seriously pained, Robin circles around him and starts shoving him towards the shore – a little ways away from the remains of Cultist John Cena.

Nick collapses on the shore, grinning wearily when a massive head comes to rest in his lap, and starts skritching and petting behind her ears and down across her scruff, running his hands carefully around the places where bullet holes are already closing up to be little more than scratches. Robin melts into it, making some kind of half growl half purr sound that’s a little bit like a boat engine, so perfectly happy and contented that any lingering doubts or concerns about the situation that Nick still had evaporate.

In the peaceful stillness, Nick takes the opportunity to really look at his friend. He actually whistles, low and impressed, when he realizes that Robin’s… ok, no point in beating around the bush, Robin’s wereotter body – _Except that hadn’t been what she’d said, had it? What were the terms she’d used? Something really Irish sounding and something like ‘videothrope’ or something? He'd been a little too preoccupied with freaking the fuck out to really pay attention to her exact words at the time._ – is actually _bigger_ than Cheeseburger. Seriously, the lithe, streamlined otter build kind of hides it, but she’s probably a good nine feet long _without_ the tail. And, as though the size weren’t enough, even an Average Joe like Nick can tell that the body Robin’s currently wearing is more or less built to _destroy_. _Seriously_ , who knew that anything with webbing between its toes could also have claws _that_ massive and terrifying. Not to mention the _teeth_ …

“Holy _shit_ , Robin.” He breathes out, voice all full of little boy wonder, “You are _bad **ass**_.”

She lifts her head up to look at him, tail wagging and happy noises turning a little smug, and maybe Hurk _wasn’t_ completely off base all those weeks ago when he brought up werewolves – not that he could have known – because, it hits Nick, there’s something _distinctly_ lupine accenting her giant otter face. _Especially_ the dumb, self-satisfied wolfy smile she gives him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick rolls his eyes, bopping her lightly on the top of the head and chuckling when she snorts indignantly, “I’m tellin’ you somethin’ you already know, right? Anyone ever tell you that no one likes a braggart?”

A twitch runs through her body, and the lowering head freezes, green eyes regarding him steadily. Then, deliberately, Robin raises herself up and noses the center of his _Rye and Sons_ baseball cap.

He holds her gaze for a few seconds. Then he palms her dumb otter face and shoves. “Smartass.”

Robin lets out a high, sad whine as she flings herself to the ground, rolling over on her back and staring up at him mournfully like the complete drama queen she is.

They end up passing a good chunk of the night there, sitting together by the edge of the river – which, thankfully, gradually loses its death-stink as the current sends all the blood and bits downstream. Eventually, though, Robin heaves out a long sigh – sounding like some kind of large brass instrument or something – and crawls out of Nick’s lap and back to her feet, nudging him pointedly until he sighs himself – a lot less deep, it’s somewhat weird to admit – and gets up. 

“Yeah I… should probably see if I can get back to camp before the others try calling out the cavalry or somethin’.” Robin snorts derisively at him and he nudges at her ribs with his foot. Then, a thought suddenly hitting him, he looks down a little to the giant ass otter that is his friend and grins winningly. “Say, Robin? I don’t suppose I could convince you to… y’know... not mention this to anyone?” He tries smiling more, hand twitching upwards involuntarily to scratch nervously at his beard. “The whole… me wanderin’ off and getting’ nabbed by Peggies part, I mean.”

Robin _stares_ at him.

It’s the most judgmental look Nick’s ever gotten from something with a muzzle.

And Peaches can give some _seriously_ judgmental looks.

“C’mon Rob, please?” It briefly flitters through his mind that he is begging a giant wereotter for mercy, and that it’s not even remotely the weirdest thing that’s happened to him lately. Then he forces that thought away as unimportant, because he _really_ needs her to not tell anyone about this. He’ll be _lucky_ if he lives to never live it down. “If Kim ever finds out about this she will _kill_ me. And worse,” he pauses for a second until he’s sure he’s got all of the otter Deputy’s attention, “lock me up in our basement or somethin’ and not let me fly for you anymore.”

Robin continues to stare at him for a long moment. Then, heaving out a pained sounding sigh and shivering in what he thinks is the otter equivalent of a full-bodied eye roll, she raises a massive webbed paw and lightly sets it in his outstretched hand.

He grins and shakes her paw. “You’re the best, Rob!” Then, as she starts turning with an exasperated sounding chuff, a thought hits him and he grins wickedly. _”God bless you please, Mrs. Otterton,”_ he warbles out into the night, nearly breaking down in laughter as the giant otter body _freezes_ abruptly, _”Eden holds a place for those who prey!”_ He’s a terrible person. _“Hey hey hey!”_

Slowly, her head turns back to him, wearing the most disgusted face she can probably manage as a giant otter.

Then, before he can react, Robin coils her massive body up and _leaps_ into the river, sending a veritable _tidal wave_ of icy water splashing up and all over Nick.

“ _Gah!_ ” He’s suddenly very relieved that there’s no one else around, because the wild, jumping dance he does would get him mocked for a _long_ time. “Oh, fuck you too, asshole!”

There’s no sign of Robin in the river, though. Not even the faintest ripple.

There’s just a sound echoing out across the water – a low, barking roll of laughter that washes over Nick.

He sighs.

Then he smiles.

“See you tomorrow, Robin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ Robin Baird - Hope County Junior Deputy and Dobhar-chú Vídtrathrope - went on that night to pick a fight with John Seed, leaving him seriously battered and completely terrified as he barely escaped and ran back to his brothers with his tail between his legs. Nick Rye - Pilot and Human Being - made it back to camp where everyone had absolutely noticed he'd gone missing, resulting in several weeks of constant mockery until Hurk disappeared one night only to come back claiming he'd been abducted by a sasquatch, taking the heat off Nick. Basically everyone in Hope County remained completely oblivious to the Deputy's distinctly non-human status, and Nick Rye stopped giving a damn and started being amused by their stupidity. ~
> 
> _So yeah, in case you've gone through life thinking that otters are just sweet, playful, harmless little balls of adorableness...? Let me introduce you to the existence of the Giant Otter (Pteronura brasiliensis), aka the River Wolf - a charming creature from South America that can grow up to 6 feet long, lives in family units of 4-8, and likes to play with local alligator/crocodile cousin the Caimen. And by "play" I of course mean _likes to toy with and then **eat alive**_. Or, you know, just go look up one of those videos of river otters drowning a monkey to death in revenge for being tormented by the monkey and its family._
> 
> _Seriously y'all, otters are **vicious.**_
> 
> _On another note! The song Nick sings at the end is a riff on "Mrs. Robinson" by Simon and Garfunkle, and Mrs. Otterton is a character from Disney's_ Zootopia. _Just, y'know, FYI and FYLegal-Disclaimer._
> 
> _Well. This was weird. But fun! Hope y'all enjoyed it too, and see you next time!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm not going to lie, this does not further the story in any real way. It's just pure self-indulgence. Basically, I had a lot of fun behind the scenes coming up with the Vidrathrope and Dobhar-chú species, felt like putting the stuff together in a fun way, and figured I might as well add it in case anyone else found it interesting. So._
> 
> _Chapter warnings for an academic-ish paper written by someone who hasn't written an academic-ish paper in a long time._

[Pages excerpted from _The Compendium of Therianthropes_ , written by R. Carter III for the archives of the Men of Letters, American Branch.]

_Vídrathropes – known commonly as wereotters – are among the lesser studied Therianthropic species. This dearth of information is correlated to the typically benign nature of the species – where other Therians have aggressive and territorial instincts and cultural practices which often call for Hunter intersession, Vídrans are prone to an atypical degree of temperance and affability which facilitates their integration and concealment within human communities. Indeed, many Vídran clans have remained undetected amongst human populations – even high density populations (see G. Fitzgerald’s account of the Malblanc Clan of Portland, Oregon for an example) – for significant periods of time. While this is typically a good thing – Vídrans generally account for less than 2% of Therian attacks on humans annually – it does mean that little information is available on the species, as sadly most data on nonhuman species is collected during or after a Hunt._

_The following is a comprehensive account of what information we do possess on the Vídrathrope species._

_[…]_

_**Subspecies** _

_Vídrathropes are generally sorted into one of three subspecies – populated by various pure or hybrid “Bloodlines.” The main subspecies are: Lutrathropes, or river otters; Lutrithropes, or sea otters; and Pteronurathropes, or giant otters. Both Lutrathropes and Lutrithropes possess a number of diverse derivatives – such as Eurasian or North American river otters, or the Pacific and Asian sea otters – and hybrid Bloodlines composed from two or more subspecies are common. Many believe the majority of differences between the subspecies and Bloodlines to be largely cosmetic or environmental; however, […]_

_By far the most interesting Vídran Bloodline, however, is the Irish **Dobhar-chú**. This Bloodline is unique, not just among Vídrans but among all Therians, as it is a hybrid of two separate species – being a result of crossbreeding between Irish Lutrathropes and Lycanthropes. How, exactly, this happened is unknown, as while natural crossbreeding between distantly related Therian species is possible (see the sections of Lycanthropes and Ailuranthropes), it has never otherwise occurred between entirely separate species. Numerous conflicting accounts exist to explain the creation of the Dobhar-chú, but the one detail agreed upon is that magic of some variety was involved – given geographical and cultural factors, the best received theories involve druidic rituals, or direct intercession from either the Tuath Dé, the Fomorians, or the Aes Sídhe._

_Regardless of how the Bloodline came to exist, the result was undeniably remarkable. Dobhar-chú are differentiated from other Vídrans by several notable factors. First, by size – Dobhar-chú are significantly larger than any other Lutran or Lutrine Bloodlines, approaching the size of many Lycanthropes, making them the second largest Vídran Bloodline after the Pteronurans. Second, the body shape and musculature of Dobhar-chú shares similarities to their Lycan ancestors. This is most apparent in their longer limbs, more developed hind legs, and longer muzzles; these changes make the Dobhar-chú a significantly greater threat in combat and more physically powerful in general, though it does come at the cost of diminishing their swimming ability somewhat, at least when compared to other Vídrans. Third, the teeth and claws of Dobhar-chú are significantly larger and sharper than those of any other Vídrans; similarly, Dobhar-chú possess superior hearing, smell, and night vision than pureblood Vídrans, and unlike the change in body shape these differences do not seem to diminish the Dobhar-chú’s aquatic capabilities. The last two significant characteristics of this Bloodline are not physiological, but psychological. Dobhar-chú are significantly more social than other Vídrans – even surpassing the familial closeness of Pteronurans – to the point that they often resemble Lycan packs in size and loyalty. Also, like Lycans, Dobhar-chú are fiercely loyal to and protective of any individuals – regardless of species – that they come to regard as friends or family. And, finally, the temperament of Dobhar-chú varies greatly from pureblooded Vídrans. Where other Vídrans are – contrary to some common misconceptions – more than capable of violent or territorial behaviors, especially when sufficiently threatened or driven by the desire for revenge (see the Gulothrope-Vídrathrope Blood Feud for an example), Dobhar-chú are prone to surges of hyper-aggression and territorialism that can more than surpass their Lycan ancestors._

_It is, unfortunately, due to these last two factors that the Dobhar-chú Bloodline has spent the last few centuries constantly on the brink of extinction._

_Their aggressive and territorial nature, combined with their intense loyalty, led to centuries of violent altercations between Dobhar-chú clans and local humans, culminating in a wide-sweeping crusade instituted by the English monarchy – and actually supported by Irish nobles – that targeted all members of the Irish Vídrathrope population, regardless of Bloodline or culpability. While the indigenous Lutrathrope clans fled Ireland to escape this event, the aggressive Dobhar-chú fought back, killing many of their attackers before they were ultimately overwhelmed by the humans’ superior numbers. Similar events occurred in the following centuries, though on a smaller scale. Today only a small number of Dobhar-chú still exist, their Bloodline heavily diluted by interbreeding with the returned Lutrathrope clans and – aside from occasional incidents that go largely unnoticed by any groups other than Hunters and cryptozoologists – they are largely inactive._

_– Though never substantiated, rumors have persisted that several Dobhar-chú clans escaped the purge relatively intact, by leaving Ireland and traveling to North America in the early 1600s. Accounts agree that these clans then steadily migrated West, intermingling with a variety of other Vídran Bloodlines before ultimately settling somewhere in either the Northwest or Pacific Northwest United States. While the extent of interbreeding varies between sources, it is generally agreed that these unified clans – often referred to as the Mac Fhlannchaidh (or, occasionally, Clancy) clan, though other names have been attributed to them – now possess Bloodlines from all three Vídrathrope subspecies, in addition to their Lycanthrope heritage. Again though, these rumors are entirely unsubstantiated, with many arguing that such a Therian clan could not possibly go undetected for such a long time._

_It must be noted, though, that if this Bloodline does exist it is almost certainly as dangerous – if not more so – than its pureblooded Dobhar-chú ancestors, and has likely remained undetected by integrating seamlessly with the human population, in much the same way as their pureblooded Vídrathrope relatives._

[A post-it note is attached to this page, an arrow indicating this passage, reading:  
“What this rambling windbag is trying to say is – if these things exist they’re minding their own business, and are probably terrifying and smart. So let them be, you idjits. – Bobby”]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I like worldbuilding. :)_
> 
> _Some fairly transparent cameos of_ Supernatural _characters/organizations, and a much less transparent Lovecraft reference. Because that's how I role._
> 
> _I'm done now. Probably. Maybe._

**Author's Note:**

> _So initially I was just intending for this to be something quick, just... something to to basically free write as a little break. An indeterminable amount of time and research later **I know so much about otters now y'all. O_O**_
> 
> _But yeah, I love me the obligatory "Person X is nonhuman and no one notices but Person Y" fic. I don't know why, I just do._
> 
> _Also, the Dobhar-chú (or King Otter) is an Irish Cryptid. It's said to be a giant creature that looks like a cross between an otter and a dog (or a dog and a fish, in some cases), and likes to eat human beings. Robin's not **exactly** that, but I used it as the primary jumping off point for this fic. Also also, Vídrathrope is a term I came up with because I couldn't actually find another name for "wereotter" anywhere. It comes from βίδρα/Vídra (Greek for otter) and Anthropos (Greek for human being). Basically I just coppied the etymological construction pattern for Lycanthrope and called it a day._


End file.
